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Friday, February 22, 2013

I don’t know why I watch this show. I feel it’s the same
reason that I read about writing advice or sexism. I like to be pissed off. And
nothing inspires the same way anger can. It certainly gives me a lot of fodder
for ranting.

The television show What
Not To Wear, which I was surprise to see was still on the air, takes a
woman who has either committed herself or been victimized by her “friends” in
order to come to New York, receive 5,000 dollars, and buy a whole new wardrobe.
The catch? She must subjugate herself to high school styled ridicule.

The main, interesting facet of this dynamic is the pure
declaration of “expert” and “amateur.” Unlike writing criticism, in which it’s
hard to tell the levels of knowledge and stupidity each side has, the show is
really there for the audience to side with the hosts and laugh at the
ridiculous impressions of the victims.

Here’s several problems I have with the shows tactics:

-The hosts dish it out but can’t take it.

-The hosts are uninterested in the victim’s aesthetic
(though they say they’re not.)

-The hosts can only argue with criticisms of their “fixes.”

-The hosts constantly mock their contestants.

-The hosts don’t bother to be persuasive, they rather bully.

-The contestants, by the end, are Hollywood homogenized.

Am I biased against them? Yes. Am I siding with the
contestants, despite their complete ability to be jerks as well? Yes.

But I’m not here to talk about how best to be objective; I’m
here to talk about criticism.

You’ll meet jerks like this allthe time in the art
world, especially because that’s the sort of attitude that will sell.

You have Stacie and Clinton whose entire job is to be
interesting. What we see are two people vocally expressing their moods,
opinions, and feelings, but in the most inconsiderate way possible. First on my
list is how indignant they are when someone makes a jab at them. It reminds me
of a scene where I watch an adult insult a child and then be surprised when the
child insults them back.

After spending ten minutes ridiculing a person (again with
more priority to be funny than convincing), the woman turns back around and
makes an insult against them. Clip to twenty minutes of the hosts aghast at how
rude she could possibly be.

Now, there’s two arguments in favor of hosts’ attitude.
Number one, the contestant agreed to come in and be critiqued, and two, the
hosts are supposed to be experts who know what they’re talking about. From a
writer’s point of view, it’s important to take those two arguments into
consideration because that is exactly the problem that comes up in group
critique.

Just because an author wants feedback doesn’t give license
for the critic to be, for lack of a better word, a butt. And I say a butt
because it’s the best description I can think of that applies. However, what
constitutes as a butt is someone who is either too lazy to try and be persuasive,
too focused on being clever to be clear, or simply just disrespectful of the
creator. The best situation for feedback is when the author takes his work to
someone he respects and who respects him, but that’s not always an option. The
most reachable form of feedback is a group critic, and that is a setting in
which everyone must talk, and there isn’t
a screen process for those inside it. Thus, the critic feels that his job is
not to be helpful.

Many group critiques fall victim to this “putting on a show”
mentality. They perceive that since the author wants feedback, he needs to just
accept what is given and isn’t allowed to recognize the jerk behind whose
giving it. The critic also, and this is an important part, spends her energy
trying to be funny and witty, rather than saying something convincing. We’ve
all met this person. Hey, we might even be
this person at times. Though they are usually only one in a crowd, they also
tend to be the most vocal, so we’ve all had to deal with them.

Here’s my argument against this “host” perception: Why are
we giving feedback? In the case of the show, Stacie and Clinton are trying to
change the client’s life by helping her learn how to dress in ways that make
her feel good about herself. In the case of the writer’s group, it is allegedly
to help the author make the best work possible. In either of these cases, being
persuasive is an important part, but being persuasive is hard. Turning to
bullying is a cop out, and trying to legitimize lack of thought by claiming
that “it’s not my job to make them feel good” doesn’t benefit the goal of
helping. Sure, we could say that if the author really wanted the best book
possible, he would take the feedback at face value. But then, on that note, we
could say that if the critic really wanted to help, she would phrase it in a
way that would convince the writer. And if she didn’t want to help then why would
she bother giving feedback?

It is easy to be blunt. “You have too many characters.” It
is easy to bully. “That doesn’t matter.” It is much more complicated to try and
be diplomatic, but much more effective. Bullying wins an argument, but it
doesn’t convince anyone. They just sit there thinking that the critic is a jerk
and then goes back to their old ways as soon as the butt leaves the room.

No one will win everyone over, and it takes two to tango. In
order for an artist to be convinced, he has to be willing to be convinced. He
needs to not throw a huge hissy fit and try to take the critic’s words with
their value, even when the critic “shouldn’t be bothered” with explaining herself.

But in the case of Stacie and Clinton, we get to be front
row witnesses to all different types of reactions, and I have to say, with these
hosts, there are no right ones.

A good interaction should allow for the artist to explain himself.
This brings me to the concept of the expert and the amateur. Problems arise
when we start perceiving each other as one or the other. In reality, the best
situation is when the author respects himself as an expert and chooses to believe
the same of the critic. We often perceive the dynamic (especially in the
context of peer groups) as the critic knowing what he’s talking about and the
artist being an irrational mess, in which the author’s disagreement is usually
attributed to ego.

But the fact of the matter is that critics can be wrong. If
you actually watch the show, What Not To
Wear, you’ll have the experience of looking at their “fashion forward”
outfits and going, “Gah!” Not are objective viewers able to disagree with both
sides, the experts’ opinions can be flawed when they don’t take into consideration
what the style the individual wants.

Most writing teachers fall into this trap, and I think that
can be attributed to that many beginning writers have no idea what they want. I can’t count the number
of times where someone’s told me, “It’s a metaphor if you want it to be,” or
where they couldn’t decide if their vampire script was supposed to be satirical
or serious. Honestly, this is the first step to improving as a writer, which is
simply to decide where you’re going.

Everyone has an image they want, even if they’re not aware
of it. Disregarding that image will remove definitions of “good” and “bad.” Or
worse, will “fix” an element that now feels alien with the rest of the
decisions.

Stacie and Clinton spew phrases that claim they’re thinking
about that person’s “style,” but in reality, and as made obvious by the end
result, they’re only concern is about “better.” Of course, there’s some reason
behind this in that many of the women on the show’s “aesthetic” is either
overdoing it or doing nothing. However, no matter how much they claim they’re
just trying to make the victim less eclectic, it still astounds me how every
women ends up looking pretty much the same in the end. Every interesting thing
about her is gone, the aspects that made personality turned to something pretty
and unnoticeable, and beautiful but bland. A perfected mediocrity, if I’ve ever
seen it.

And that is a huge point when being criticized. Much of
criticism will focus on the obvious, the uniqueness, the big picture peculiarities.
It doesn’t mean it’s inaccurate, but it does mean that changing them will often
remove what was interesting about it. Like the sparkling vampires of Twilight, the greatest criticism will be
about what obviously makes it different.

I think what bothers me most about the show is the
condescending tone the hosts show for these people. So many of us have to
experience that attitude, and realizing that no matter how you respond (with
the exception of a short and sweet “Yes, ma’am!”) they will be unhappy. The
idea that it’s okay to talk to people this way—because they should recognize
the expertise and realize it’s for their own good—is idealistic, a representation
of power that many crave. We want to be able to say what we want without
self-censorship and still be respected, our expertise is that strong.

Of course, we as authors can’t prevent anyone from being a
butt, and, in reality, dealing with butts is a talent that ever writer needs to
learn. But, becoming a talented creator requires becoming a talented critic to
some level, and to be a talented critic, a person must have knowledge, be
objective, and able to try and persuade the storyteller. Not only is it hard
and important to not demoralize other people, but the author must not demoralize
himself by being too harsh.

Monday, February 18, 2013

Sincerity is a hard thing to
fake. It is different than being earnest or being honest or even being
heartfelt. Earnest writing implies a certain level of importance. You can’t be
earnest while asking for a piece of pizza. “Honesty” indicates purity. “I’m
just being honest,” implies, “I’m not being mean, so you can’t be mad.”
Heartfelt gives the impression of passion in the subject matter.

Sincerity, however, can exist in
many contexts, and an important factor in being interesting.

The marathons of The New Adventures of Old Christine that
have been going on the past few months give me some background noise during long
periods of creativity. It’s not a show I seek out, or a show that I can even
squint at at times; it is a series that I can go to when nothing better is on.
But, since it is tolerable and always seems to be showing, I continuously watch
it and I continuously think, what is wrong here?

When looking at inexperienced
writing, painful dialogue, or “watered down” comedies, one huge problem stands
out. They all sound like they’re lying through their teeth.

I once edited a short novel for a
friend, and my biggest criticism was that his leading lady seemed like she was
going to stab her boyfriend in the back with the largest and sharpest phallic
symbol she could find. Whether it be her telling him that she loved him or she
liked the necklace he gave her, everything had a suspicious tone.

Which, of course, it was all a
lie. A story is, after all, made up.

Bad writing sounds like it is
what it is. It reads like, “I am suppose to say I love you now, so I will,” or,
“I am supposed to say something horrible now, so here.”

The New Adventures of Old Christine is based around the current
trend of having horrible people in loving relationships. Christine is supposed
to be a slut and an alcoholic. They make joke after joke about her past and the
way she spends her money, trying to pull on humor from her flaws. But, here’s
the problem: we never actually see her act on any of these alleged vices. She
doesn’t drink unless it’s going to lead to a punchline, and when it comes to
all of her boyfriends, she doesn’t sleep with them any sooner than any other
“well-adjusted” protagonist.

The lines are stilted. They are a
little too on-the-nose. Unsubtle, the characters practically explain the punch
line as they say it.

There’s something appealing about
it, though, because I still watch it. It lasted a whole four seasons, which
means it had an audience for at least three years. But it’s painful, and I’m
cringing the entire time, often praying there will be something else that I can
watch instead.

Though it won’t compensate for
being dull, a book that is believable has attained the majority of its goals. Sincerity,
however, is also not something that can be achieved by a few little tweaks,
which is probably why it’s not one of the more obvious or common criticisms.

A couple of things to remember
when trying to make a book look less of a yarn and more of a legend:

The goal – The narrator or
character wants to achieve something. The reason he says it is usually
different than why the writer said it. The writer may want to do something like
illustrate how much of a jackass Tim is, but rarely does Tim want to be
perceived as one. When he tells that woman she’s fat, he needs to have a better
reason for doing it then he wants to look like a jerk. He may want to get
vengeance, “Congratulations on the promotion. It is such an inspiration that
you can overcome your appearance and still be successful,” or out of annoyance,
“I understand that your ass makes it harder to get out of the way than normal,
but move.” He may be trying to get her out of the room, “I don’t want to alarm
you, but you might want to fix that roll of fat under your bra.” He may think
that he’s honestly doing her a favor, as though the reason why she hasn’t lost weight
is that no one told her. Any of these are better than a straightforward,
“You’re fat,” because it’s hard to see why he would say that, though it’s easy
to see why an author would.

Show don’t tell – A by far overused
saying, it holds a good amount of truth. Shows like The New Adventures and Cougar
Town like to claim how horrible their people are, but they’re called mean more often than they do anything mean. Telling has its place.
It saves times, is clear, gets to the point, and knows that the audience is
going to get it. But it’s often an issue of proving it, so when an author is
afraid that his character’s traits are coming off as insincere, he needs to add
some weight behind the talk.

Deal with the Ramifications – It
is typical in many shows to have a “red shirt.” Labeled after the nameless characters
in Star Trek who would only come on
missions in order to die and illustrate the danger of the situation, it is a
commonly mocked and remembered aspect of the show. Authors want things to
happen. They want to give their characters superpowers, loves, flaws,
qualities, items, and even circumstances that will benefit either their
protagonist or their story line. As with Old Christine, they may attribute
alcoholism to her which gives them leverage (Want her to do something out of
character? Promise her a bottle of wine) and opens up the field for jokes. It
reads like, “I’m an alcoholic just because it’s funny.” Had there, however,
been any sort of story, i.e. conflict that involved her drinking, it would have
given it more motivation outside of its humor. The difference between say Karen
Walker from Will and Grace and Old
Christine is that the other characters recognize Karen’s issue and treat her
accordingly. There are many episodes in which the conflict is about her friends
considering her irresponsible, where she makes of a fool of herself while
drunk, and where her drinking led to some sort of plot points. Giving the
characters what you want them to have needs to have some sort of motivation
outside, “I wanted them to have it.” Make it a story point by giving it some
conflict.

Lastly, it is important to just
be honest. The hardest scenes to write are those about love and sex. It is so
intimate and revealing, that inexperienced authors tend to make them the most
stilted. You can say many things about Twilight,
but it is honest. The story tells exactly what Stephanie Meyer wants and
believes, and her readers can relate to that because we’re not all that
different. Women want powerful men who only have eyes for them. When it comes
to any sort of subject matter, however, being anywhere from Seinfeld’s “about nothing” or Misery’s obsessive, foot-chopping fan,
if the author can really tap into what he feels rather than what he should
feel, the story will be far more sincere and that much more immersive.
Sincerity comes from the author relating to his characters and truly expressing
things he cares about. The best way to not sound like you’re merely pretending
is for it to be based around a little part of reality.

Friday, February 8, 2013

The world is full of advice and opinions, and most times it
is more contextual than it is “bad or good.” One thing I’ve
learned about suggestions is they often need to be dissected before they
can be utilized properly.

That all being said, there are few things that can be
considered unequivocally wrong. That does not mean, however, that there aren’t
many I find stupid.

See, the only real reason why an author (or any artist)
would be discouraged after witnessing work horrifically made would be the similarity with his own. Having spent my time in creative writing classes and
on the internet, I’ve read a lot of “bad” stuff, and I have to say, when I
think I can do better, I’m thrilled that it’s bad.

When you start to outgrow the “basic mistakes” phase,
and more to the point, become aware of your own improvement, any acknowledgement of
that improvement is great. From a purely egotistical point of view, reading bad
work should only build up your confidence, unless, that is, you can’t tell the
difference between yours and Aurora Dawn 969’s.

Logistically, for those of you who aren’t hypercompetitive
and don’t just thrive by constant praise, nothing improves writing like reading
really, really awful stuff.

Sure the advice is usually to stick your nose in a Chekov
for a few hours, and there is some benefit to that, but there are issues with quality of writing that makes learning from hacks easier
than learning from masters. For one thing, the main difference between a master
and a hack is the master is able to hide his hackery. When looking into a great
book, we’ll see superficial points—isn’t Aragorn cool?!—but the reader will be
too engrossed in the story by beautiful words and subplots/points to see that
that’s really what the author is saying. Essentially a fantastic scene is
extremely complex with the mistakes and motivations well hidden and compensated
for, where a terrible scene is usually pretty simplistic and obvious.

It’s like trying to learn from a
handsome, rich, and charismatic man how to pick up women versus one of those
socially inept line-slingers you see in movies. Though both can teach you
something, the line-slinger will show active cause and effects, whereas it’s
pretty damn hard to tell if the first guy’s success was because of what he said
or because he’s hot.

The real reason, however, that I find this statement
frustratingly dumb is not because it doesn’t make sense, but because it is
usually prefaced by the speaker’s indication that other people shouldn’t be
writing. Considering that it’s their fears someone out in the world is thinking
the same thing about their writing, it seems to me that we should all just do
each other the favor of being concerned with how much work we’re doing and not
how much people who are “less talented” than us are.

Lastly, I have spent far too much time in this career having
people degrade the concept of “practicing” to really take this statement at
face value.

2. “I don’t know why
I thought I deserved to do this.”

There’s two ways to look at the world of writing. One, it is
a business. This viewpoint helps people better understand pitching, make active
decisions, and see scams. Two, it’s a form of self-expression. This viewpoint
will direct authors to better understand their work, make active decisions, and
see themselves. Really, the greatest success comes from being able to balance
these two concepts and knowing when to sacrifice one for the other.

In either of these cases, however, what you “deserve” is
irrelevant. If it’s a business, then it’s about what people will buy. They
don’t want to purchase your product then that’s your problem.

If it’s a form of
self-expression, then you have the right to say what you want, even if it is just what you ate for breakfast. No one wants to read it then that’s their problem.
Everyone deserves a right to say what they want to say, whether or not anyone
wants to listen, whether it be a discriminated group describing their pain, or
a bored housewife describing hers.

We like to think of authoring as coveted work, meant for
innate geniuses and talents, where the unworthy plebeians are not allowed to
tread. That is true, to some extent, at least when it comes to getting
published and read. But just because someone doesn’t want to print or look at
your manuscript doesn’t mean you don’t have the right to make it.

Of course, the people I heard saying this were in a fit of
despair after receiving some sort of bad review or rejection letter, and so
yes, they were being overly dramatic. And they have that right. But it
disheartens me to see them to not only take it so hard, but to express a
feeling that we all secretly have; we have to deserve the right to try.

In reality, trying to achieve our dreams is an innate part
of life, and, if you think about it, the basis for what all American civil
rights are oriented around. We have the right to choose our futures, and the opportunity to try is a right, not a privilege.

3. “You’re not
writing for the right reasons.”

Mostly this pops up in the middle of a conversation where an author expresses her motivation or
goal in writing and someone explains the cause of her problem is due to having
that motivation at all.

Try. Go up to a semi-artistic and remotely vocal person and
tell him that you want to write a “great book,” and stand back to get an
earful.

He will say something along the lines of, “It’s the wrong
approach. You want to express yourself, to say something that speaks to you. You want to write for the right reasons.”

You'll find though that every reason is the wrong reason,
according to the right person. Not only do the opinions change from each
individual, but there are, unfortunately, many who care about the “right and
wrong” of artist’s motivations only so far as to discourage others. Writing is
a highly competitive field in which we try to find reasons why we are meant to
do it over our fellow creators, and one of those things is motivation.

It’d be like one guy saying that he should get the girl
because he doesn’t just want to sleep
with her. Which, is legitimate, when true. An author who only wants to write to make a whole bunch of money is headed down the
wrong path, except—and here’s the thing—an author who only wants to make a
whole bunch of money will quit pretty damn quick.

No one writes for one reason and one reason alone. If we
write for the fun of it, when the fun runs out, we stop. If we write for the money, when the money doesn't come in, we stop. But, if we write for the fun of it, and we write to finish a book, then we are
more likely to go on after that fun runs out. But then we stop. If we write for
the fun of it and we write to finish a book and we write to accurately express
a vision, we edit. But then we stop. We don’t get published, we don’t go
through the pain of submission and query and, yes, even actually being in
print, unless we want all those things as well as some sort of money or respect
or fans or all of the above.

The only “right” reason to write is the reason that gets
things written. Any wrong reasons by themselves will not end productively. And,
quite frankly, telling people that it’s unacceptable to write for certain
reasons will simply lead to self-delusion. It is important to understand what
your goals are and be honest about them because there are a hell of a lot of
decisions to be made over the course of your career, and those decisions cannot
be made by someone whose pretending not to care about the things that she
actually does.

4. “You shouldn’t start
writing until you’re 30.”

This is actually the number one piece of writing advice I’d
ever gotten. Their spoken logic was that anyone under thirty has no life
experience.

The issue is insulting for several reasons, and wrong for
several more. One is the attitude in which children (and apparently young
adults) have nothing to say, that they don’t understand the world, and that
their opinions don’t matter. People have been saying that about each other for
centuries, though it could be anywhere from culturally to racially to sexually
oriented. Everyone has things to say. And, as I expressed above, they have the
right to say them. Most importantly, we can learn a lot from even the most
inane childlike drivel, not just literary lessons.

The reason it is wrong is that even if we were pretend for
the sake of argument that no one wants to hear about the experiences of anyone
29 and under then let’s take into consideration the concept of practicing. I
constantly say practicing is a process underrated by choice
speakers, and this is an example. If someone can’t write anything interesting
until he’s thirty, it doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be gaining experience until
then.

Writing is the only art form our educational system forces
each and every student to work on constantly, and I think some interpret that lack of stagnancy as a
correlation of talent and age. A student who stops drawing at ten will draw
like a ten-year-old at 30. I believe this is the same for writing, just in this
day and age most people stop writing at 18 or 22. How good that person is at 18 or 22 varies, of course, but my
point is that, unlike drawing which is much more obvious when we are bad at it,
and is something that more people haven’t been forced to take classes in, many
people believe that writing improves with age. Perception can, and it can
benefit a story, but it’s not the whole of it.

Lastly, I have to say that age is the number one excuse I hear
from people. Whether it be “I’m too old,” or “I’m not ready yet,” it’s all
about being the wrong age. Why? Because age is an indicator of time. “This is
why I can’t do it now.” Well, the
fact of the matter is we’re not all going to live forever, and, unfortunately,
we don’t know we’re even going to live long. There is never a right time to do
something, and we’d best be ready for the opportunities when they show up.
You’re too young until you’re too old. You’ll never be ready if you don’t get
the experience. If you don’t do it now, there’s a good chance you never will.
The advice to “wait” just seems like a nicer way of saying, “don’t.”

5. “It’s about
whatever you want it to be about!”

This is the outlier. Unlike the others on this list which
have to do with demoralization, “It’s about whatever you want it to be!” has to
do with a criticism of creation.

What bothers me is when someone makes something,
tells me it’s metaphorical, and then says the metaphor is whatever I want it to
be.

If I wanted to read a story that was about anything I wanted
it to be, I’d write one.

I come to you because, strangely enough, I want to hear your opinions. I want you to do the leg work of perspective and thought. Show me a Whole New World, if you will, but don't expect credit for me touring it myself.

Advice and opinions are subjective, able to be used and
discarded in more ways than the simple on/off switch that can be attributed to
them. When it comes to some things however, no matter how much truth they may
or may not contain, I find that motivation is important. These five things are
stupid because they come from the wrong place. Competition and judgment is a
part of the writing world we have to contend with; I just wish people would be
less obvious about it.

Friday, February 1, 2013

I’ve spoken before about America’s demand for innate geniuses,
and I think it is problematic. We worship the ugly duckling ideology; no one
wants to be a normal old duckling because there’s no way that he could grow up
into a swan. We like the concept of being born differently, and that if we
weren’t then we aren’t every going to be a ridiculous success. We can be an
okay success, I guess, but it’s not like you will ever be a master.

With this arises a problem. We don’t like the idea of faking
anything, especially genius. If we have to fake genius, then we are clearly not
genius, and so how can we ever be successful? But the important fact is most
genius is faked, or rather, learned to be exposed over time.

Your subconscious, your instinct, your gut, your talent,
your innate personality, whatever you want to call it, is all about “normal.”
It’s how we function and get through life. Your brain gathers “normalcy,” files
it away, and then utilizes it for autopiloting so as to focus its energy on the
abnormalities. Our brains say, “Cop,” and we ignore anything specific about
him. Unless, of course, his hair is bright orange or he’s wearing a skirt.

What that means for the artist is that whenever your
subconscious, or “inspiration” makes a decision, it will try to make the most
normal decision it can, not the most original. It will say, “I am making a book
now,” and try to fit your book into the most booklike style it can, e.g., cliché.

This is why you might feel inclined to start your book with
your character’s daily events even though you don’t particularly care about
them, or stick her in suburbia despite you growing up in the wilderness. These
choices aren’t wrong, they’re completely legitimate, but when you start to
combined subconscious decision after subconscious decision without any input
from your conscious self, you will start to come up with a story that… well,
anyone could have come up with.

Take the Tool, Color survey, for example. A psychological questionnaire
was passed around the internet a while back in which they asked the reader to
solve six mathematical equations then name a tool and a color.

Did you do it? There is a very good chance that you said “hammer.”
As for the color, I think the survey thought we’d say red, but I’ve gotten a
hell of a lot of blues.

My point is that when asked to draw on something from our
subconscious, it will immediately flesh out the most “normal” answer. It makes
sense, because the subconscious’s job is to do thinks quickly, so it slaps
labels on everything and then can find it easy when asked. But though this
method of organization makes thinking quicker easier, allowing for us to communicate
by, oh say remembering what the “normal” definition of a word is, it also makes
for pretty homogenized images. And since normalcy doesn’t actually exist, it
doesn’t always entirely make sense. Why a hammer? I don’t know. We use it a
lot?

Now you might not have answered hammer, and you might not
have answered it for two separate reasons. 1) You’ve heard this before and knew
the trick or 2) You labeled the word “tool” differently than “the rest of us.”

We would all, for whatever reason, like to be of the second category.
We understand genius as different and innate differences as innate genius. And considering
most of us don’t count learned genius as genius, it matters. Of course, there
are benefits to be had of the second category, to be the one who thought of saw
or drill or weedwacker, but there are also negatives. The person who thinks “differently”
has to contend with being relatable. He does not have to try to be creative,
according to certain definitions, because he already has a different
perspective. However, he has to deal with things like basic communication
problems. Maybe not to an extreme, but think of it this way:

We describe the character as picking up a tool and jamming
into someone’s side. Kind of funny when most of the audience is thinking of
that tool as a hammer instead of a screwdriver. Being that his subconscious
says “screwdriver” when it thinks tool, the author will not be aware that other
people are imaging a hammer. He won’t know to fix it without outside input. (Hence
why outside feedback is always good.) This problem varies, just as much as
having a different perception does, but the more we perceive reality
differently, the less we can understand each other, with extreme examples like
autism.

Secondly, before we get too far into wanting to be like that
second guy, the important thing to remember the first guy. Because, sure, you
can train yourself a little to label abnormal things as normal, but it is much
easier to just know the trick.

This brings me to my point. If an author recognizes “normal”
she can then proceed to make it abnormal. Instead of having her teenage girl
sneak out of the second story of a suburban household, she can now be caught
sneaking out of an apartment complex, or maybe even a yurt.

The fact of the matter is that though we want our perception
of normal to be different than others, if it’s not, is readily fixable. It is
much easier to sit back and make the effort to look like we think differently
than people like it to be. And if you have a problem “faking genius” then you’re
probably going to have a problem in a career that revolves around telling
stories that aren’t true.